


Misstep & Correct

by BoxWineConfessions



Series: Atypical Omegaverse [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: "fixing" your boyfriend trope, Alpha Yuri Plisetsky, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Hand Jobs, M/M, Omega Otabek Altin, Phone Sex, implied omega yakov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: It is easy to forget that Yuri was an alpha of just fifteen. Yuri has so much to learn about being a partner. Otabek is willing to teach him, but only if Yuri is willing to learn.





	Misstep & Correct

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dovesnroses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovesnroses/gifts).



For the longest time, Otabek assumed that he was like his mothers. He assumed that he preferred the scent of someone like him, an omega. They were soft, and sweet, quiet and gentle. Otabek appreciated that.

Otabek’s opinion does not change when he is reunited with Yuri Plisetsky in Barcelona. Yuri is young, and reckless, and dangerous in a way that only a young alpha could be. He exhibits all the kinds of traits that would normally make Otabek ignore the other boy, but his softness and his beauty draw him in like a moth to a flame.  Yuri has delicate features, and a thin frame. It doesn’t take long for Otabek to notice that Yuri growls at everyone, except him.

Otabek presents himself as himself and nothing more: dangerous and cocksure on top of a motorbike. When they park, Otabek unzips his leather jacket slowly, and lets his scent waft outward. This is who he is. Yuri could have him, if he can accept that.

When Otabek asks Yuri to be his friend, Yuri accepts.

It is Otabek that gives Yuri his hoodie to wear on the beach later on. It stinks of him and only him, a rouge and belligerent omega.

Yuri tangles his hands into the longer part of Otabek’s hair, holds him firm, and gives him what is objectively his worst first kiss ever. Their teeth clash together, and there’s too much spit. It doesn’t stop Otabek from kissing him again.

When the early witching hours of morning fade into the day, Otabek rips Yuri’s gloves off with his teeth. Otabek makes sure to brush the pads of Yuri’s fingers against the softness of his mouth. He wants Yuri to want more.

After the exhibition skate, Yuri leans in close. Otabek leans in too. It starts out like another simple kiss shared between them. They’ve shared dozens in the past twenty-four hours.

Yuri moves to Otabek’s neck, and mouths at the soft sensitive flesh there, then he adds pressure.

“What are you doing?”  Anxiety hits him like a freight train. With Yuri’s thin frame beneath his hands, and his scent so peaceful after the exhibition skate, it is easy to forget that Yuri was an alpha of just fifteen. Yuri has so much to learn about being a partner. Otabek is willing to teach him, but only if Yuri is willing to learn.  

“I don’t know,” Yuri confesses.

Otabek knows. He can see by the way that his voice trembles and his chest heaves that something came over him. Something raw, and hot and ugly. “Were you trying to mark me?”

“Maybe,” Yuri confesses. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Otabek responds. “Don’t ever do it again.”

* * *

When it is time to part ways after the Grand Prix Final, Otabek sees Yuri off at the gate. Otabek is patient. After all, he’s waited five years for this moment, what is a little bit longer.

Yuri moans into Otabek’s mouth and grinds into him.

These greedy and wanton displays are more akin to a newly presented omega in heat. He stinks of Yuri for the entire plane ride home. Yuri’s inexperience is just as endearing as it is frustrating.

* * *

Yuri kind of knows that he fucked up with Otabek in Barcelona. But also, what was the big fucking deal. They liked each other. Otabek needed a fucking mark when he was a whole country away so other assholes backed the fuck off.

“Otabek?” Mila’s eyes go wide. “That’s who you smell like? Who you’re texting all the time? Who you’re fawning over?”

“Yeah, hag. Jealous?” He’s seen how many times per day that Mila’s parents call, and how much they worry, and how over protective they are. Yet, they believe her when she says she isn’t dating anyone.

Suckers.

“Georgi!” She calls across the rink.  “I figured out who it is.”

Georgi’s big stupid eyes light up like candles.

“He wants to marry for money.”

“How the fuck do you know about him?” He almost forgets to punctuate the statement with, “Hag.”

“Um,” Mila leans over the railing and reaches for her phone and her water bottle. Yuri is half tempted to push them further out of reach. “The Altins are like a really big deal. His moms are both alphas. You know how rare female alphas are.” It’s quite rare. More rare than male omegas, but for whatever reason, less coveted. “She’s the CEO of some huge financial app company. And his other mom is a fashion designer.”

Yuri remembers buying himself an obscenely expensive pair of purple silk pajamas when he was in Milan from a small little boutique that only carried items that were available in limited quantities. The box they came in were black, and in gold flouncy letters across the lid it read _Altin_. Holy fuck.

“You think they’re like, super traditional or whatever?”

“I don’t know? I’m not an expert,” Mila rebuffs.

“Fuck that. You can’t just interject, act like a fucking expert, and then say you’re not an expert.”

Mila shrugs her shoulders. “Why?”

“No reason,” Yuri huffs.

Yuri has always heard that the parents of omegas are old fashioned, and super protective. They almost have to be. Maybe even doubly so for male omegas, who are rare and highly valued, like soft and sensual pieces of fine silk. Maybe that is the reason Otabek rebuffed him at the Grand Prix.

That had to be it. Who wouldn’t fucking want him to gnaw on their neck? Yuri is a world record holder _and_ gold medalist. Yuri could take his fucking pick, but he didn’t want to. He wanted Otabek.

“They won’t let you date him?” Mila asks intently. “Hmmm?”

“I said there wasn’t a reason,” Yuri barks.

* * *

Time apart from Yuri means time for Skype calls that go on for far later than intended. Otabek wakes up for his morning classes groggy and queasy from far too little sleep. Time apart means texts messages all day, and sending a filter with today’s new snapchat filter, even if he finds it all banal.

Time apart means walking Yuri through his math homework. “You skipped a step. See?” Otabek’s cursor drifts over the screen and shows Yuri his error. “Yuri, pay attention,” he always has to scold.

“How can I when you’re voice sounds so pretty?”

Time apart means that they practice their English together over Skype too. Otabek knows that he’s much better than Yuri after living abroad for so long, but it is a skill that Yuri will need.

 “Come stay with me in St. Petersburg for awhile.”

“It’s the middle of the season Yura.”

“Who cares? There are coaches here. You can have whatever you want here if you skate well.”

“I want to finish the season at home, with my own coach.”

Yuri rolls over onto his back and stares into the webcam upside-down. “Lame.”

“Yuri, I have to go for now. My moms are taking me out to dinner.”

“You’re going out? Again? You can’t just go out. You’re an athlete. You need me to cook for you every day.”

Otabek laughs. “It’s fine Yuri, I get everything approved by my coach.”  

He’s hesitant to hit the “hang up” button on Skype. Time apart means feeling the ache in his heart grow stronger with each passing moment that they have to be apart.  

Yuri feels the same way. He just expresses it in the worst way possible.

* * *

Otabek’s parents are _both_ alphas, fucking flush with cash, and women at that. They’re probably a bunch of pearl clutching traditionalists. Otabek _does_ still live at home despite enrolling in classes at a university in Almaty. Maybe Otabek is under lock and fucking key.

He needs to fucking reevaluate everything.

Yuri pops a Dramamine to prevent barfing all over the dining room, and then refreshes Yakov’s scotch one too many times in Lilia’s old Russian Revival home in St. Petersburg. Then, he stealthily puts on one of the old wax 45s that the hag keeps in a trunk by the Victrola. Lilia and Yakov are dinosaurs. So his parents had to be super fucking protective of him at the turn of the century or whatever.

It doesn’t take long for Yakov to start talking without being prompted.  “We met every Saturday for cocktails in the Belmond Grand Hotel after the last performance at the Bolshoi. Every Sunday, we sat miles apart on the ends of this cushioned sofa in my parents’ drawing room. We pretended that we didn’t spend the whole night dancing.”

Yuri barfs in his mouth, just a little bit. He hides it like a champ.

Yuri comes to watch Otabek at Four Continents. After Otabek clinches silver, Yuri sends a courier over with a card and some ugly ass plants. The kind that Otabek always posts pictures of on Instagram: hens and chicks and little spider plants, the kind that people who kill plants grow because they’re indestructible.

He meets Ms. And Ms. Altin in the hotel lobby. He can’t go into the bar. “Um,” his voice cracks. He sounds so fucking stupid. “I’m Yuri Plisetsky. I’m the best fucking skater. I have three gold medals now,” besides his silvers in the early GPF qualifying events, he couldn’t have asked for a better opening season. He’s strong, and he’s capable, and he can care for Otabek, not that Otabek is the kind of person who _needs_ caring for. He wants to do it because Otabek is special. Otabek is special, and the distance is driving him fucking crazy. “I want to,” he makes sure to articulate his statement carefully. “I want to ask Otabek to marry me.”

Otabek’s mother dresses in loud patterned clothes and drips herself in jewelry. She laughs a soft laugh that is starkly contrasted to the way that she presents herself. “Did you ask him already?”

Yuri answers simply, “No,” because he’s like trying to woo Otabek. Didn’t he just spend months fucking pining over him?

“Then we don’t approve.”

It rips through Yuri’s stomach like a punch in the gut, but he almost expected it. Maybe they think he’s too young. Maybe they think he hasn’t proven himself as proper mate material. Yuri knew this was fucking false. He had _three_ gold medals for his debut season. Then again, Otabek was a goddamn catch.

* * *

“You really upset my mothers,” Otabek tells him. He hopes that it’s implied that he should never try that approach again. His parents were as nontraditional as they come. Otabek could do whatever he wanted, and they respected that above anything else.

“I thought that would help.”

“The last thing my parents want is for me to end up with some alpha who thinks they can just circumvent my thoughts on an issue. They were upset you went to them.”

“Okay, so let’s get fucking married. You can come live with me.”

Otabek leans into his space. His expression is pained, like when he speaks with the press, or when he’s up on the podium. He smells bitter, like nerves and confusion. “Yuri,” his voice is steady and deep. “You’re not very smart are you?” and then presses his lips to Yuri’s.

* * *

 

In Helsinki, Otabek takes him to this place that he knows of. They only serve beer and wine, not a proper bar. The DJs there spin a mixture of contemporary and older music that can’t be replicated anywhere else in the world.

Yuri almost makes it whole evening without doing anything asinine. On their way back to the hotel, they pass another club that is 18 and older. Yuri begs him, “Beka please,” and when that doesn’t work Yuri tries to growl into his ear. Then, he tries to bite the soft spot on his neck that makes him keen. They’re alpha intimidation techniques that he’d hoped nobody actually used anymore.

“It’s really unattractive when you do that kind of thing.”

“What kind of thing?” Yuri’s eyes go wide with realization as he asks. “God damn it!” he yells out into the empty alley behind the club. His voice echoes and ricochets against the walls.  “I didn’t mean to Otabek. You just smell so good, and taste so good, and fucking feel so good.”

“I don’t care,” Otabek responds and turns away from Yuri. “I won’t tolerate it, and you can’t manipulate me.”

* * *

It is difficult to stay angry at Yuri, especially when Otabek knows that his intentions are good. It’s easy to forgive Yuri, especially when he knows that in a matter of hours, they’ll have to separate once more.

Yuri spends the night in Otabek’s hotel room. The day of the exhibition, they lay in bed all morning with the air conditioning cranked low, and a nest of blankets stacked high.

Things start off slowly. They kiss one another as soon as they wake up. Closed mouth kisses, and closed mouthed kisses that melt into open mouthed kisses. Kisses with lots of tongue and lots of friction. Kisses that feel like they’re yelling at one another, and not kissing one another. Otabek could kiss Yuri forever.

Yuri throws one leg over Otabek’s hip. It gives him the perfect opportunity to rock into Yuri’s body. He rubs his own clothed erection against Yuri’s thigh. He can feel Yuri through his jeans.

Yuri pushes Otabek onto his back, rucks his shirt up high, and licks every inch of skin that he can latch his mouth onto.

Otabek rolls them over, and ghosts his fingers across Yuri’s body. He pinches his nipples until Yuri has tears in his eyes. He fists his cock over and over again until his knot inflates from nothing but the pressure of Otabek’s hand alone.

Otabek knows to halt a problem before it starts. He’s not going to give Yuri the chance to think about putting his knot anywhere near his hole. Not this time. Not this time, when they have next time, and the time after, and the time after.

Right now, Yuri’s brain is addled with lust. He’s thinking about marriage again. He’s day dreaming about cooking for him. Yuri complains constantly that he should get more home cooked meals. He’s thinking about Otabek transferring to St. Petersburg University. Yuri sends him links all the time on their literature program.

Yuri wants Otabek to help him with his homework in person. The third tutor in almost as many months quit.

Otabek wants this with Yuri. On his own terms.

““But I wanted to knot you,” Yuri whines.

“Yuri,” Otabek nuzzles into his chest. The whole room smells like the two of them.

“I’m not ready yet,” he confesses. It isn’t a lie, but it’s a lot more round around the edges than, “I don’t trust you, yet.”

Otabek does trust Yuri to listen and learn what it is that he likes, especially now that certain options are off the table.

Otabek gets on all fours, and shows Yuri exactly how he likes to be touched.

“You’re really wet Beka.” Yuri purrs into his ear.

“Kinda like you Plisetsky.”

“Kinda like you too Altin.” Yuri says as he sinks two fingers into Otabek right away.

Otabek bears down on him, and pushes back against Yuri’s fingers. Yuri traces the rim of Otabek’s hole with the soft pads of his fingers. He waits for Otabek to relax once more, and then he plunges another finger inside.

“Yura,” Otabek gasps into the sheets.

Otabek comes on just his fingers.

“Otabek,” Yuri pants into his ear. “You’re so beautiful like this.” Otabek winces. He assumes that Yuri will attempt to bite him again, or tell him to move, or tell him to marry him without really asking.

Instead, what he says sends shivers down his spine. It doesn’t negate all the pigheaded things that Yuri’s done in the course of their relationship, but it’s a start, “I love you.”

* * *

Yuri, with red face and clenched jaw, asks him, “Hey, dance with me?” It’s a question and not a statement. Yuri flinches, as if he fears rejection when Otabek reaches out for him.

 Granted, they’re out in the parking lot, and they’re about to tear off on the bike. There is no music, and there are no low lights, but there is also no pressure. There is Victor Nikiforov or Yuuri Katsuki to fawn over them. There is no Lilia Baranovskaya to make comments about Yuri’s technique. She’d been doing that when Mila had been asked to dance by a young choreographer.

There’s just the late spring breeze in their hair, and the light of the low hanging moon. Outside it smells of asphalt and Yuri.

“You don’t mind that I lead?” In meetings prior, Yuri would’ve automatically moved into a leading position without thinking about it. Now, he puts his hand on Otabek’s shoulder without question.

“I feel like you’re better at this than I am.”

Otabek feels his mouth curve into a smile, and lets the laughter tumble out. “Yuri, I’m the one that quit ballet.”

Their steps aren’t as awkward as Otabek had anticipated. Yuri’s body yields, and Otabek is able to make them both fall into slow and even steps.

Otabek closes the scant distance between them. Yuri tilts his chin, as if he expects a kiss. Otabek skirts around his mouth, and goes for his ear. He can feel Yuri shudder beneath him. “I think I love you too Yura.”

* * *

Otabek feels bolder when they’re apart.

  
Yuri will wake up in a rut in the middle of the night with shaky hands, and sweat pouring down his back. He’ll jerk off for hours, only to have nothing work. When morning breaks and he hasn’t gotten an hour of continuous sleep yet, he’ll call Otabek. Only after he knows that Otabek is likely to be up and getting ready for his 9:30 AM class.

Otabek knows this much because Yuri tells him so.

  
“Beka,” his name on Yuri’s tongue sounds like velvet feels.

  
“It happened again huh?”

“Yeah,” Yuri grunts into the receiver.

  
It’s easy to imagine Yuri naked in bed with his long hair fanned out around him. Otabek wonders what kind of underwear that Yuri has discarded this morning: black bikinis, bright pink briefs, maybe even thong?

  
“It’s getting more frequent Yuri,” Otabek deadpans into the phone.

“No fucking shit, this is the third time this week.”

  
“You need me to take care of it for you.”

“God, fuck yeah.” Yuri sounds so ragged and desperate. He wonders if Yuri has hit the point where he abandons the head of his cock in favor of the base in a desperate attempt to make his knot flare, and his orgasm come faster. Yuri will need to be at practice soon.

  
“I think I’m ready to let you fuck me.” Otabek says it dryly as if he’s asking Yuri for the time, or if he wants to go shopping. It isn’t a big deal. He made up his mind months ago. He now feels ready to act upon it. Yuri hasn’t done anything unimaginably or irreparably stupid for weeks now.

Yuri babbles all sorts of incomprehensible filth into the receiver. He says things about Otabek’s hole clenched around his fingers. He says things about his knot. Yuri comes with a choked cry of “Otabek,” on his tongue, followed by a cry of, “God, I fucking miss you.”

It makes Otabek shamefully wet.

* * *

“Um,” Otabek sounds strained. He sounds like he wanted to sound normal, but knows that he isn’t coming of as normal at all.  

It makes Yuri’s chest tighten with anxiety. The last thing that he wants is to make Otabek feel that way, because he felt like he was making some kind of progress with Otabek. That progress was small.  Yuri hadn’t growled at him or demanded that he move to St. Petersburg in almost two months. Yuri was going to take what he could get and hoped that Otabek thought that counted as progress too.

Otabek tries to sound normal as he speaks into the receiver, “I think my heat started.”  

Yuri drops the juice glass in his hand and watches sticky molasses slow motion as it hits the ground and shatters on the floor.

“I wish you were here.”

“I wish I was there too,” Yuri wants to say something sexy. He wants to say something about how he’d finger Otabek nice and slow until he was aching and then push in real gentle like. Instead he says something incredibly, stupidly sappy. “I’m fucking trying to be a better person Otabek. You make me want to be a better person Otabek. Not just in skating.”

“Yuri.” The line goes silent for a moment. There’s the rustling sound of sheets against skin and skin against skin. “I appreciate the sentiment, but,” Otabek interrupts himself with a rumbling chuckle. “I could actually go for some of your chest beating alpha bullshit right now.”

“Oh my fucking god Altin,” Yuri whines, but it feels like a relief. Yuri wonders what Otabek smells like when he’s in heat. Is it how he always smells, but stronger? Is it sweeter? Yuri wonders what Otabek would taste like if he licked a long stripe from his hole to his cock. “Are you touching yourself?”

“Yeah,” Otabek responds. “Three fingers. They don’t feel right like yours. Not long enough.”

Only Otabek could describe himself touching himself in such a dry and disinterested tone, and still make Yuri rock fucking hard. He takes his cock out, right there at the counter, and jerks off in the kitchen.  

“God, I would take such fucking good care of you Otabek. I’d knot you, and I wouldn’t let go.”

* * *

Yuri agrees to come to Almaty at the end of the season for a while. He says he’ll meet his moms again, and not make an ass of himself. Yuri says he’ll sit in on one or two of Otabek’s summer classes. He’ll come to the rink and meet his coach.

 

Otabek meets him at the airport. When they see one another, Yuri leaps into his arms. Otabek picks him up and spins him around. It’s the kind of scene out of the movies, except it would always be the alpha picking up his omega. Despite this, Yuri accepts him. Yuri allows him, welcomes him even, to tilt his head back and kiss him.

 

Otabek shows him the apartment. It’s a loft in a high rise that he just moved into. It has high ceilings, and new appliances, and marble countertops. It’s no secret that his moms are paying for it. Otabek pours them both a glass of pomegranate juice. He tells Yuri about some of the things that they can do in town. He shows Yuri his recently stocked fridge. “Maybe we can cook later. Together.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Yuri responds while trying to stifle a blush.

There’s a lull of silence between them. For the first time, it feels uncomfortable as if Otabek has to fill it. You wanna see the bedroom?”

“Fucking smooth Altin.”  Seconds later he adds, “Well fucking show me.”

So Otabek does. He takes him down the hallway by hand.

Otabek strips off his shirt, and then raises a cocky brow, “what are you waiting for, Plisetsky?”

Yuri scrambles to take his own shirt off too. Then, he goes straight for Otabek’s pants. Otabek pulls back. The loss of contact is minimal. Otabek can still feel the heat radiating off of Yuri’s body. It is still upsetting to Yuri, who whines in protest.

“A couple of things”

Yuri whines in protest when Otabek’s hands encircle his and stop his pursuit of ripping off Otabek’s jeans.

“I’m not marrying you.”

Yuri interrupts him with a kiss, “Yet.”

“I’m not going to St. Petersburg.”

Yuri kisses him again. This time it isn’t a peck on the mouth. It’s the kind of in between kiss. Yuri uses his tongue, but not enough of it. Yuri gives him pressure, but he wants something harder. “I’ll fucking come to Almaty, I don’t give a fuck.”

Yuri pulls away to look at him. He listens intently, and his expression makes it hard to breathe. “You’re not marking me and,” Otabek opens his nightstand drawer and extracts a box of condoms. “No accidents.”

 

 


End file.
